


Sambucky Bingo Short Fics

by glittercake



Series: Quick Fics [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Camping, Choking, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fingering, Fluff, Frottage, Getting Together, Guardian Angel, Hair Pulling, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Massage, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, One Night Stands, Smut, Soulmate AU, Team Cap - Freeform, Witchcraft, comfort from a nightmate, crying into ice cream, frist dates, married in vegas, snuggling under blankets, thick thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake
Summary: A collection of unrelated drabbles/short fics initially posted on my tumblr.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Series: Quick Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663303
Comments: 52
Kudos: 204





	1. Comfort from a nightmare

**Comfort from a nightmare**

Yeah, okay, camping is fun and all until someone has a nightmare. By someone, Sam means the super-soldier. No, not the blonde one in the tent next door, not the tiny redhead either. The one wrapped around Sam like he has more arms than he’s letting on.

Wasn’t a major thing like it has the potential to be; just a jolted start and a gasp this time. So he recovers pretty quickly and clambers closer to Sam.

“It’s okay, you’re fine,” Sam tells him, petting Bucky’s hair while still clumsy with sleep. “You’re in the woods.”

“Yeah, that’s real comforting, Wilson. Jesus.” Bucky says, yawning and rests his hand on Sam’s ribs.

Sam grumbles and turns a little, trying to keep his eyes open but also snuggle back to sleep. “No, shh, I mean we’re camping. You’re safe. I love you and everything.”

“You’re all dumbasses, and exactly no one is safe in the woods, but alright.” Bucky curls up under Sam’s chin. “And I love you too.”

“Shhh!” comes Nat’s irritated hush from her and Steve’s tent.

“What’s shhh? I just had a nightmare.” Bucky starts. Sam kind of wishes he’d just go the fuck back to sleep because he knows when Bucky is about to start something and now is one of those times.

Now Steve’s concerned. “You okay, Buck?”

Sam says, “Yes” at the same time, Bucky says, “No.”

Steve says, “Uh…”

Bucky takes advantage of the pause, “Sam usually sings for me—”

“I do not.”

“—don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Definitely not.”

Steve chuckles in that annoying way; he’s on the same bullshit as Bucky. No one knows this about him, and no one will ever believe it. He coos, “Aw, that’s so sweet.”

“Come on, honey. Sing it for me.”

“I’m not singing anything.”

“Sammy come on; I had such a bad nightmare.”

“Yeah, Sammy. Sing for him.”

“I am going to commit heinous crimes in these woods tonight.” Natasha’s voice is muffled like she’s got a pillow over her head. “Go to sleep!”

Sam hopes she makes good on that threat. Bucky’s grinning at him. It’s not fucking cute. It’s honestly not.

“Sing for me.” He whispers and kisses Sam’s jaw.

Sam stares at the tent’s pointed roof angle. He’s going to have to sing this goddamn song so Bucky’ll go back to sleep and not end up as Widow slaughter.

“Sing it to him,” Steve whispers loud enough for it not to qualify as a whisper.

There’s a clink of metal, the unmistakable sound of a knife being unsheathed. Nat growls, “I swear.”

“Where’d that even come from??” Steve yelps.

Sam takes a long, sullen breath, and Bucky grins up at him like Alice’s Cheshire.

So Sam starts singing, while promptly ignoring Bucky’s smiling face because it’s dumb.

“sft ty… rm ty…”

“No sweetheart, louder. Can hardly hear you.”

Sam sighs; starts again.

“SOFT KITTY WARM KITTY LITTLE BALL OF FUR-" 

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls at the sound of Steve’s cackle. Sam would go over there if Bucky wasn’t giggling into his neck like this.


	2. Crying into ice cream

**crying into ice cream**

Sam’s life was calm for the first time in a while, his brain too.

He’d been perfectly happy at the VA. He had a sweet little routine: a run, coffee, shower, take a walk to the center, do his bit of giving back, and head home.

Not: panic, fight, run for your life, fight hide, become a fugitive, run, fight, die, and fight again.

Now, Sam can deal with a certain amount of unrest; he’s a functional grown man capable of adapting. He’s done it a hundred times over. And, after accepting that he’d be on the run for a while, he made peace with it.

He even worked out a new routine, gone on different runs, and varied his coffee shops.

He was as fine as someone whose life had been upturned could be.

Granted, he didn’t know the world would practically end, and all he ever knew—and almost everyone he knew including himself—would be obliterated to dust.

But he woke up on the ground in Wakanda, as if from a nightmare. A cold dread that he didn’t immediately understand seeping in between his ribs and gripping tight.

And abruptly, he was ordered back into the fight. For Steve. For the world. For… he’s forgotten a little, what exactly it is he’s been fighting for.

Then a shield, minus some people he had grown to love, plus another brutal battle later, and he is frayed and torn at the edges again. Just like he had been coming back from his tour.

He stares instead of looking; there’s pins and needles when he tries to feel—if he even feels anything at all—and everything seems a pale shade of its true self.

The world around Sam is too loud. And it’s not the type of noise you turn down, and it’s not the type of dull you brighten with the turn of a knob. It is definitely not the type of exhaustion you sleep off.

And so that’s how Bucky finds him: cross-legged on his sofa, staring at reruns on the t.v and not seeing a damn thing, with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s melted in his lap and cold tears streaking down his cheeks.

“How long have you been sitting here, buddy?” His voice is calm and careful as he approaches.

“Uhm…”

Sam doesn’t know, a while, probably longer.

He blinks slowly out of his reverie, gaze settling on Bucky beside him.

“It’s alright. We were just worried. You left after the briefing and—”

Yeah, that’s right. The briefing after the last op. He stormed out of there angry and flustered as all hell, he remembers now.

“I’m sorry,” he manages quietly. His throat feels stuffed full of cotton, worn right through.

Bucky must see it on his face, somewhere deep behind his eyes- all the things that lay hidden there, to be unpacked one day. One day, when it’s quieter, when he’s not so busy, when they don’t need him, when he…

Bucky takes the melted tub of Ben and Jerry’s from his hands, places it down, and says, “I’ll run you a bath, you like lavender, don’t you?”

Despite the lack of response from Sam, Bucky gets up. Sam hears the water run, and soon the sweet scent follows.

“Come on.” Sam takes Bucky’s hand, and it’s soft and warm, and suddenly the tears come again. He doesn’t know what they’re for; he’s not sad. He’s just so, so tired.

Sam stands motionless beside his bath until Bucky says, “Arms up.” So he lifts his arms for Bucky to peel the shirt over his head. Then, “Step out,” he says and gently pulls Sam’s sweats down. “Get in.” He says, with a tender arm on Sam’s elbow. “It’s okay.” He says.

The water eats him up, so warm, warmer than Bucky’s hand on his shoulder. And that sweet smell curls into his nose as he sinks down.

Bucky squeezes a little shampoo into his hand and starts massaging it into Sam’s head, small little circles. “You know,” he murmurs, “I got a safe house up in Canada. A cabin, there are deer, and rabbits, and any kind of bird you can think of. They come right up to the porch sometimes.”

Sam turns his head a little to see Bucky but not enough to deter his fingers deftly working magic. “A cabin?”

“Yeah. And you know what else?” He starts rinsing Sam’s hair with the warm lavender water, then says, “It snows this time of year, so your ice cream won’t melt so fast.”

Sam feels a little defrosted himself now as Bucky starts sponging down his shoulders and neck.

“I’m okay,” Sam tells him, but even to himself, the words sound off-kilter. Not believable in the slightest. “You don’t have to drag me out to a cabin somewhere in the woods. I’ll be okay.”

“I know I don’t  _ have _ to. I never do anything because I have to anymore. But I  _ want _ to.” His hand curls around Sam’s chin to lift his head. “If you’ll let me. If you’ll let yourself.”

Sam nods, feeling like he might start crying again, feeling shredded from the inside. “I’m tired.”

Bucky kisses his forehead, “I know.”

After that, Bucky dries him off, sets some soft pajamas out on the bed, and leaves the room.

Sam pulls the clothes on, socks too, while he listens to Bucky’s phone conversation. He’s making plans, travel plans, and he’s barking orders, arguing, saying  _ “–run a man down until there’s goddamn nothing left. We’re taking a break, and that’s it.” _ And a few minutes later he’s making an appointment with Sam’s therapist.

Sam’s heart swells. 

It’s nice to be important beyond the shield and the title. It’s nice to know someone cares about Sam Wilson crying into a tub of melted ice cream all by himself. It’s especially nice to know that this someone is James Barnes.


	3. Married in Vegas

**Married in Vegas**

Bucky’s eyes have a tough time opening.

He blinks little by little until he’s able to make out a good enough picture. It’s all really fucking bright, wow. He hasn’t felt his head pound like this in a goddamn long time. 

What the hell did they do last night?? He knows he’s in Vegas, they all are, for Steve’s birthday. He remembers dinner, drinks at the pool bar, Sam in those fucking swim shorts, Thor whipping out his space booze. And he thinks that is exactly where shit went south. 

He crawls up on his knees and falls right back down again. Which is when he realizes he’s not alone in this massive California King bed. But whoever is with him is buried under the sheets and piles of pillows. 

But he’d know that ass anywhere, even with a sheet draped over it.

“Sam?” he whispers, “Sam, wake up.” 

There’s an empty bottle of something between the sheets, and a few condoms — fucking hell. 

Shit, he thinks. He wasn’t exactly planning on banging Sam randomly one drunken night; he was going to be eloquent about it. Flowers, maybe dinner at that Ethiopian place Sam likes, and then he would have asked him out as a gentleman should. 

Instead they… well, he doesn’t know what because that space booze packs a mean punch. As if he hadn’t forgotten enough shit to last a lifetime. 

Sam’s still soundly asleep. Bucky hopes his human ass doesn’t have alcohol poisoning. He pokes a finger into Sam’s side to be sure. “Sam!” 

The pile of pillows goes, “Hmmph.” 

So he’s alive. Good. 

He forces himself up, naked as the day he was born, and stumbles to the bathroom. Jesus, everything hurts. What the hell is in that stuff??

He looks like boiled shit- hair plastered to his forehead, eyes swollen and red and face pale. Yikes. Bucky drinks straight from the tap because fuck that shit. 

It’s only when he rinses his face and checks for any improvement when he notices the silver band on his left hand. Now he might still be fucked up, so he leans in closer to the mirror and double checks. And nope, it’s not his metal prosthetic gleaming weirdly. 

It’s a fucking ring. 

“Sam… Sam!!!” 

His voice echoes through the penthouse, and he’s skidding across the marble floor with one hell of a commotion, so when he gets to the bed, Sam’s scrambling to get up, grabbing for his Glock and screaming “What!? Where?? What??” 

Bucky stops, staring at a naked Sam Wilson holding a gun with the sun hitting from the window at his back. And wow. Wooow. 

A band similar to Bucky’s is on Sam’s finger too, and something about the way it looks on him, wrapped about that gun… Bucky might have more than just a crush right now. 

“Why are you naked??” Sam says, voice cracking with sleep still.

Bucky clears his throat and nods to Sam’s body. He also covers his dick with his hand in case it starts piping up. 

“Oh, wow… Did we—” 

“Think so, but uh,” 

“Damn,” Sam sighs, puts the gun away, and falls back onto the bed, “Was gonna ask you out first.” he pulls the sheet over his dick and bends his arms behind his head, grinning up at Bucky.

Now, Bucky’s seen movies where there’s this record scratch to a halt, and everything stops, and when Bucky realizes what Sam said, that’s exactly what happens. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” he comes to sit next to Sam, puts a pillow on his lap, for decency and all, “You were gonna do  _ what?? _ ”

“Ask you out. Like on a date, before we… you know, rubbed dicks.” God, he’s really pretty, as hungover as he is, all Bucky sees is his smile and those eyes, the muscles flexing under his skin. 

“Yeah?” Bucky knows his smile probably looks really dumb right now, “That was my plan too. Now we probably gotta find a courthouse instead.”

Sam frowns. “What?” 

“Oh. We got married.” Bucky says. It’s pretty funny when Sam whips his hand from behind his head and gapes at it. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Are you serious?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry. They can annul it within 48 hours or something.” 

Bucky’s about to get up when Sam says, “Well, I mean…”

He turns to look at Sam, who has a devilish glint in his eyes, “What?”

Sam licks his lips and trails his eyes down to Bucky’s dick. He reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand, tugging lightly, “You said we got 48 hours.”

Bucky feels dizzy, Sam’s hand is so soft, “…or something, yeah.” he mutters absently, very distracted now. 

Sam pulls Bucky down on top of him; Bucky positions his knees on either side of Sam’s hips. They’re nose to nose, chest to chest. “Shit, Sam…”

“Shhh.”

Sam leans up and kisses him.

He feels his heart hammering in his chest, feels Sam’s body move beneath him. Sam tips his head back and lets Bucky kiss his neck and his collarbone and all the way down his chest. 

So he’ll spend a few hours rolling around in the sheets with his husband,—maybe a catch a shower too—get a divorce and then take this gorgeous man out on a date. 

You can do things in whichever messed up order when you’ve been alive for a century and came back from the dead. 

Who’s gonna stop him?


	4. Guardian Angel

**Guardian Angel**

He knew an angel. The Asset remembers. He used to sit in his containment unit waiting for the next mission, and the Angel would be there, watching, warming the cold cell with only his presence. He doesn’t remember exact details, or features or eye color. He only remembers the voice. 

The Angel said to him, “At ease, my Soldier.” and his mind would find a quiet place to go when the machines came on, and they were instructed to wipe him. There was the cold bite of metal restraints, the buzzing electricity, but there was also the Angel’s hand in his own. 

He’d meet the Angel in an open field then–when he turned away from the hurt–wind sweeping silently through the rows of sunflowers. The Angel always stood with his back toward the Asset, waiting. Long, narrow wings that rippled from his shoulders to where they touched the ground, beckoning the Asset closer. 

The Asset never spoke, and somehow the Angel always knew he was there. The Asset only remembers his bright glowing light; even in sunlight he shined the brightest, and the Asset would lay his head down on the Angel’s chest for the longest time. 

“One day, you’ll hurt no more.” he’d say as his wings closed around the Asset’s bruised body. 

Perhaps that’s how seventy years went by so fast; those moments spent in the Angel’s arms stretched on for decades. 

On missions, the Asset would see him perched on a rooftop, a quick gleam of heavenly light, a displaced white feather falling at the Asset’s feet. 

“I’ll never forsake you, Soldier.”

Until the day came that he did.

The last time the Asset saw him was outside the base before the mission to terminate the Captain. He left dribbles of white feathers for the Asset to find. Like Hansel following the candy trail, he went blindly. 

Standing in yellow incandescence, the Angel said, “The time has come, my dear Soldier.” sounding ancient and young at the same time. 

For the first time, the Asset spoke, “You said you’d never leave." 

"I have many faces. You know but one. We shall meet again.” he placed a hand against the Soldier’s cheek; he remembers the warmth of it seeping into him like an everlasting flame. 

The Angel left in a gust of dispersed light, and the Asset missed him the instant he was gone.

____

_ ‘Stop running from me!!’ _

He thought nothing of it the first time he found the white feather with Wilson’s note. 

Wilson was hot on his tail, he damn well razed the whole of Mexico to the ground in his search, but Bucky was always one step, one building leap, one heartbeat faster. 

The feathers turned up time after time, and he couldn’t help but think there was some significance to it, to the desperate tone of Wilson’s notes. He wrote like someone who had known Bucky a lifetime and then some. 

Yet all Bucky remembered of him was Wilson’s ripped wings and how that burned a hole right through Bucky’s heart; seeing such beauty destroyed by his own hands. Why, he didn’t know. He wasn’t even that fond of birds. But something about that man spreading his arms and soaring into the sky whipped around in Bucky’s brain like a tornado.

_ 'I won’t hurt you. Come back’ _ the next note said along with a fluttering white feather on the rocky pavement of Hungary.

And still, he kept running, not understanding, not quite able to grasp why this felt like something of monumental importance…

… or why he kept the feathers tucked safely in his notebook.

____

He didn’t understand until one morning when the sun had just started peeking through the trees outside his window, and he woke to Sam standing between the two open panes, peering out, white curtains billowing at his sides… Just like a pair of wings. 

He got up slowly, each memory slotting into place as his eyes traveled down Sam’s naked back, the sun gleaming in through their bedroom window, bathing him in the serenity of early day.

Bucky had seen that before, years ago, a lifetime ago. He wondered how he ever managed to forget such a thing, something so breathtaking. 

But Sam turned to him, the soft curtains lapping at his naked skin, and he said, “Hey, Soldier." 

And Bucky’s skin responded with a prickling of goosebumps. He wrapped his hands around Sam’s middle and hugged him tight, "It’s you.” he whispered into Sam’s skin, inhaling deep. 

Sam laughed, a little perplexed, but put his arms around Bucky’s back, just like the Angel had always done. 

“Yeah, honey, who’d you expect?” Sam said, kissing his forehead. 

Outside the window, a white feather flitted to the ground.

“You,” Bucky said, “Only ever you." 


	5. Choking - SFW version

**Choking**

Bucky’s found this perfect little coffee place, the only one he knows that makes plum muffins and brews his black coffee just right. He’s been going for about a week when the shop gets another new customer.

The muffin is halfway to his mouth when a guy enters wearing purple scrubs and a knock you off your ass kind of smile.

Well shit.

He heads to the counter and places an order for some coffee and a bagel.

Bucky can see his ass from this angle, nice bubble but, tree trunk arms that make his scrubs look way too tight, fancy watch, a name tag that Bucky can’t make out from here.

He’s gawking at the bubble butt again when the owner of said butt turns and catches him in the act. Bucky’s embarrassed for like a split second until he sees amusement flit across Dreamy’s face.

Oh? Okay. Alright. Thanks universe, Bucky thinks and flashes his best knee-buckling smile. To his delight, Dreamy grins back.

Shit goes downhill when the guy sits down near the window and pulls out his tablet. Bucky knows the way you look when you’re trying to act busy, but you’re hyper-aware, especially of that cute guy who keeps glancing over- and Dreamy’s got that look on his face right now.

He’s got to give it to this guy though, he keeps good composure, ignores the fuck out of Bucky for as long as he tries drawing attention to himself. He probably deserves it for being so goddamn forward.

So he eats his muffin in defeat, takes long sullen sips of his coffee, feels real sorry for himself. Sorry enough that he stuffs a huge chunk of muffin in his mouth, but it’s too dry and hard and studded with blueberries, and Dreamy has to look up just then, because of course, and the muffin piece slips down his throat.

Bucky can’t fucking breathe, and he’s stubborn enough to try and hold his cough; if he starts sputtering now, the whole shop’s going to look at him and honestly who needs that shit. Instead, he tries to thump his fist down on his chest to no avail.

He has to get out of here and choke somewhere private, not here in front of hot nurses with sexy arms. Please god.

He doesn’t get very far. His body’s emergency responses kick in, and he launches himself up, bumps the flimsy little table, and sends everything on it clattering to the ground as he stumbles about. And, once everyone is over the shock of all the noise, they notice him choking and sputtering, seconds away from convulsing.

God, he must be seven shades of red right now, probably blue, he imagines his forehead popping with bulging veins. The next moment he’s got two arms around his middle, and someone says, “Relax, I got you.” and starts performing goddam abdominal thrusts.

It’s far more violent and uncomfortable than they show on those videos, but it gets the job done. Bucky feels the muffin piece dislodge and then, to his utter dismay, sees it flying across the shop toward the horrified crowd of onlookers.

Fuck everything. He can hear his sister cackling telling him what an absolute moron he is.

The arms around him lower him to the ground, and naturally, everything doubles up on the embarrassing scale when he sees Dreamy come around to face him.

Bucky’s wiping tears and spit off his face; finds the decency to say, “Shit, thanks.” At least he gets the nurse to smile at him again. Counts as a win in his books.

The guy–his name tag says S.T Wilson–says, “You know, if you wanted my attention that bad you could have just come over to my table, man.” They both laugh; it’s dumb the way neither of them can wipe the smile off their face.

S.T Wilson goes on to say, “Instead you sitting here choking,”

And because Bucky is in fact a moron, he says, “Yeah, not the kinda choking I’m actually into.” His cheeks are burning up, but it makes the guy laugh again, and sweet baby jesus he’s a sight. Little gap in his teeth, his skin’s glowing, and there’s a small dimple beside his mouth corner.

The other patrons return to their seats, and Bucky’s savior assures the waitress everything’s fine, then says to Bucky, “Hey, what’s your name?”

Bucky gets up from the floor, “Bucky Barnes,”

“Sam.” He says and shakes Bucky’s hand.

They spend another few seconds gawking at each other before Sam clears his throat. “So uh, my table’s still standing” he motions to it airily, “You know… if you wanna join me for a coffee?”

And now Bucky’s cheeks flush for an entirely different reason.

He’s sure he’s the only moron who can make a fool of himself like this and still score a date with a hot nurse.

So suck it, Becca.

He almost chokes four more times while having coffee with Sam, but no one needs to know that.

Sam’s smile is kind of worth it, though.


	6. Frottage

**Frottage **

The first time it happens, they haven’t done anything but kiss, maybe felt each other up a bit but stopped before things went too far. 

It’s new, this thing between them, they’re still a little shy and a little cautious. It’s all cute smiles and holding pinkies, and Sam doesn’t really care to change that.

But then Bucky falls asleep in his bed, and they wake up pressed together, warm. And hard. 

Bucky’s thigh is trapped between Sam’s legs, and his dick is firmly nestled against Sam’s hip. There’s no doubt about what it is. 

“Hi,” Bucky says all croaky and loops his arm around Sam’s middle. And he’s not that concerned about his boner. He just sleepily mumbles, “It’ll go away, sorry.”

Sam shifts a bit so Bucky can feel his hardon prod against his knee. “You want it to?” he whispers back, nuzzles his face into Bucky’s hair because he feels his cheeks flare-up. 

He looks up at Sam, obviously surprised. His eyes fall to Sam’s mouth, and it might just be the lack of an appropriate response, but he kisses Sam.

And then he moves, rubs himself against Sam as the kiss gets dirtier. Soon he’s biting Sam’s lip, making these soft, almost inaudible sounds. 

Sam rolls on his side and pulls Bucky flush against him; he’s a little frantic about it, tries kissing and positioning them all at once, so when their dicks finally touch, they’re breathless. 

“Yeah?” Sam checks, he hopes like hell it’s okay.

To his relief, Bucky nods vehemently, says “God yes,” and pulls Sam closer by the back of his neck to kiss him again, soft tongue, hand squeezing Sam’s ass. 

It feels so fucking good, so overwhelming, that Sam is skating on that edge so, so close to tipping off. 

He breaks from the kiss to breathe, to stave himself off a little, give Bucky a chance to catch up, but then Bucky moans the moment he doesn’t feel Sam’s lips anymore. 

“You okay, dollface?” He breathes, digs his fingers into Sam’s side. 

Sam shakes his head. Tries to say “Nothing,” absolutely fucking nothing in the world is wrong right now, but it comes out as a moan, something low and needy. 

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, grinds against Sam a little harder, with a little more enthusiasm. “You close?" 

"So close,” Sam’s grabbing at Bucky’s ass, maneuvers his body to get better friction; he’s honest to god gonna come in his boxers, which is pretty disgusting, so he tugs at Bucky’s sweats.

It’s another scramble to get it down to their thighs, he doesn’t want to lose momentum, and Bucky won’t let up his hold even a little, so their pants end up just low enough to free their dicks.

And holy fucking shit, the moment it’s skin on skin; the moment he feels the little bit of wetness from Bucky’s tip rub against his own… he’s done for.

Bucky cups his face just then. He says. “Let me see you,” and while they’re rutting together properly desperate, Sam starts coming.

Bucky grumbles something; some mumbled adoration, starts working his hips faster, kissing Sam sloppy and hard and whining into his mouth. So by the time Sam looks down, Bucky is coming too. 

Sam closes his eyes, lets Bucky kiss down his neck while he dwindles from the high. 

“That was amazing,” Bucky whispers in his ear, so soft, back to his coy little ways as if Sam didn’t just see his orgasm face.

“Yeah, baby,” Sam says quietly and pulls him in for another kiss. “So good." 

And they fall back asleep, sticky and gross but cuddled up close in each other’s arms. 

They’ll shower (and other stuff) later.


	7. First Date

**First Date**

Nothing goes according to plan on their first date. 

To be quite honest, everything had been on the weird side since they started this. 

Barnes choked on his spit, trying to ask Sam out for coffee. He'd gone red, sputtering and coughing, and just as Sam leaned down to help him, he smacked their heads into each other. 

It was on his ass in the stark tower lobby that he said yes, laughing, watching the smile crack across Bucky's face even as they held their throbbing heads in their hands.

Then, the night of the coffee date, while he was getting dressed, Sam's favorite jeans split open right down the back. 

He heard from Sharon that Bucky's hair caught on fire because he tried nervous-smoking out the 6th-floor window.

They'd finally gotten themselves together enough to meet outside, Sam in a new pair of jeans and Bucky with his hair tied up. 

As smooth as Sam considers himself, he's goddamn nervous. His palms are damp no matter how much he wipes them down on his jeans. 

The only thing that slightly calms him is that when Bucky subtly brushes his hand against Sam's on the way to the coffee place, his palms are sweaty too. 

It's like they both realize the same thing. They briefly catch each other's eye and smile, relieved, before Bucky squeezes his hand. 

"I haven't exactly done this before," Bucky finally admits after a while of silent walking. 

Sam looks at him, curiously, "Exactly?"

He gazes down at his shoes, kind of bashful, "I've never done this." A faint blush tints his cheeks, "With another guy."

And now, Sam's cheeks feel glowy and warm. "Well. Let me know how it is."

He thinks it'll go pretty well- a nice warm cup of coffee in a quiet, cozy place, maybe sit close enough to hold hands again, except when they get to the coffee place, it's closed. 

"Well, shit," Sam says. He wouldn't be surprised if Bucky thought this was the worst possible date in any decade. 

And then, just as he thinks it couldn't possibly get any worse, the sky cracks with thunder and it starts pouring down in abundance. 

They're both instantly soaked where they stand. 

"Come on!" Bucky shouts over the noise of splattering raindrops and grabs Sam's wrist. He starts sprinting down the road back toward the tower. 

"We're going home?!" Sam shouts back, somewhat disappointed, but he goes along. 

Bucky stops in the middle of the street and glances to the right; there's a playground with a little swing set and an old rusty merry-go-round. 

He says, "We're already wet, right?" and gives Sam a wet, rainy smirk.

Sam smiles back, "Guess we are." They run to the playground and there Bucky is the first to jump on the merry-go-round. Sam's laughing at the absurdity, but he starts spinning it faster and faster. Bucky's squealing, laughing, yelling at Sam to go even faster.

He does, even if it's just to see Bucky laughing open-mouthed and ridiculous and childlike. Perhaps he put a little too much muscle into it because soon Bucky's on his back, wheezing.

"Okay!! Okay!!" he calls out, cackling, "Jesus Wilson!!" 

Sam jerks the merry-go-round to a standstill, and Bucky sits up again, swinging his legs over the edge. They're both dripping wet, and Sam feels breathless suddenly when he's staring down at Bucky. 

"So… how's this for a first date with a handsome dude? Pretty romantic, huh?" Sam says. He lifts his hand to wipe a droplet from Bucky's eyebrow.

"Well," Bucky says, standing up. 

Sam feels Bucky's hands come up to rest on his hips. They're closer than they've ever been before, mere inches between them, and his stomach swoops a little when he has to look up to meet Bucky's eyes. 

Bucky's looking at him the way you'd look at a clear night sky full of shooting stars, the way you look at a pastel-colored horizon. There's only a fraction of hesitation when his eyes flick nervously between Sam's, and he bites down on his bottom lip.

And then he leans down and presses his lips to Sam's. 

At first, it's too gentle almost, as though it could break or be ruined at any moment. And suddenly, as Sam's brain catches up, it's like nothing he's ever known before. The rain drips and spills cool in between them, and Bucky's sighs softly against Sam's mouth. The kind of sigh that sounds like it had waited an eternity for release. 

"I'd say it's pretty perfect, sweetheart." He finally says, placing his lips against Sam's forehead instead, this time. 

And he's right. Sam thinks there's not a thing that could compare to a soaking wet first date or kissing in the rain for that matter. 


	8. Thick Thighs

**Thick Thighs**

Sam comes limping into the tower way past midnight. 

Bucky won't admit he's been awake for the entire duration of Sam's mission and has, in fact, been waiting in tense anticipation at the kitchen counter for Sam to come home. 

"Tell me you haven't been stress eating all those nuts," Sam says, placing his shield in the corner and eyeing the marble counter scattered with nut snack packs. 

Bucky shoots up and meets him at the door, "Shut up, you know how I get—what happened??" he starts patting Sam down, unstrapping his wing pack and gun holsters and unbuttoning his vest. 

"Just a muscle. It's fine." 

"Not fine. I told them I should have gone with you."

"Ain't exactly much you can do when I'm up in the air, baby." 

"I also told them to get me a fucking jet pack. No one listens to a recovered brainwashed assassins, do they?" 

"They listen. They just ignore you 'coz you paranoid as  _ hell." _ Sam winces hard when he puts his right leg down. 

"Alright, come on. Gonna run a hot salt bath and get you relaxed—what's it, your thigh?—I'll rub it out for you."

"I'm totally down for rubbing, Barnes," Sam smirks at him and kisses the edge of his jaw. 

Bucky laughs and kisses his cheek, scoops Sam up in his arms, carries him to their bedroom, where he lays him down and peels off the rest of his clothes.

"Want some music?" he asks a naked Sam Wilson and goes to run a bath. "FRIDAY, honey, put on some Mariah Carey, would you?" 

"Coming up, Agent Barnes." the A.I says.

Sam lets out a pleased hum when the music starts streaming through the speakers. Bucky smiles as he runs the bath and puts some of those muscle salts in.

He goes to get Sam, carries him over to the tub despite his protests that he can walk. Bucky lowers him and tops up the water.

"Be back in twenty." He leans down, aiming for Sam's head, but Sam tilts his head back, and Bucky gets his lips instead. 

"You're the best." Sam murmurs before Bucky pulls away.

"I try, sweetheart." 

Bucky lets him soak while he gets the massage oil and a few towels ready on the bed. 

"My fingers are going all grandpa-ish!" Sam calls eventually, which Bucky knows means he's had enough of the steamy water.

So he gets Sam out, dries him off and helps him into a pair of boxer shorts and then onto the bed. He's propped up comfortably between a nest of pillows; Bucky has turned the light setting to low and settles down between Sam's thighs. 

Sam shifts, "Ow," 

"Yeah, shh, I'll make it better." 

Bucky pours some oil into his palm and warms it up. Sam's skin is warm from the bath when he starts rubbing it in, slow, smooth sweeps up and down, circling his knee, then massaging toward his inner thigh. 

Sam lets out a low groan, eyes shut, "Right there," he says when Bucky reaches the very inside. 

"This ain't one of  _ those _ massages, dollface," Bucky says, smiling up through his lashes at a blissfully relaxed Sam. 

"Not yet, it isn't. But I'm a persuasive guy," Sam says, lazy and grinning. Bucky just kind of stares for a while because he's gorgeous like this, he always is, but now bathed in low light cushioned in Bucky's bed, defined lines and perfectly cut muscles. It's... gah.

"Sweetheart, it'll take me an eternity just to circle this one thigh of yours. Thick as hell." Sam laughs at him. Bucky says, "You been squatting or something, hm?"

"Every day is leg day, you know that," Sam says, eyes crinkled with laughter. He makes Bucky so goddamn happy; it feels almost impossible.

"I know, I know. And the world thanks you for that, Captain Wilson. Truly." 

"Hmm. Like when you call me that," he says, then goes quiet, just humming and groaning quietly as Bucky works his fingers into Sam's thigh. 

He spends a little while really warming up that strained muscle, lifting Sam's leg and massaging all the way to the curve of his ass and back down to his knee. He uses the metal hand to apply some extra pressure, and he lets it calibrate against Sam's skin, creating little vibrations. 

He also wasn't kidding about Sam's thighs being huge, and he won't lie and say the thought of grabbing on and fucking Sam into this mattress isn't appealing. It goddamn is. But Sam's tired and hurting, so Bucky can wait a little while. 

"Look what you've done," Sam slurs, now sleepy, but still cupping his semi through his boxers. 

Bucky snorts, "Alright, Captain Die Hard. Time for bed."

"Time to sort this out is what it is," Sam says insistently, but his eyes are falling shut as he speaks. 

"Uh-huh," Bucky packs away the massage oil and wipes Sam down before pulling the sheets up over him, "You know what's bad for injured muscles? Tensing up. Remind me what you do when you shoot off again, honey?"

Sam pouts, bottom lip out, "I tense up." 

"That's right." Bucky kisses both his thighs, and gets in behind him, fits himself into the curve of Sam's warm body."

Sam mumbles something about tomorrow, but his voice fades off.

Bucky kills the lights, "Yeah, doll, rest. Tomorrow I'll suck the soul out of you and then some."

He wiggles a leg in between Sam's thighs, and he too drifts off into a long-overdue sleep now that his entire reason for existing is safe and sound. 


	9. Hair Pulling

**Hair Pulling**

Bucky discovers he has a thing for hands in his hair, very unexpectedly on a quiet Thursday night.

It's a little after midnight, the TV's buzzing quietly and only pale moonlight beams in through the big glass windows.

He's sitting on the floor between Sam's legs, and Sam absently plays with his hair, twisting it into little knots before letting it spiral loose. He drags his fingers along Bucky's scalp, nails scraping gently until the knots give way.

They hardly ever have time like this, to just sit and be, so Bucky's never realized how much he likes this.

But it's not the soothing strokes or gentle ruffling. It's when a knot catches, and Sam tugs at it. That's what gets him.

It feels like a slithery jolt of electricity coursing through him, igniting everything from the nape of his neck down to his gut.

Not long after another tug, Sam collects all his hair in a pony and twits it. Bucky lets out a deep groan before he can stop it.

"Oooh," Sam suddenly perks up. He prods Bucky with his foot "You like that, huh?"

"Maybe," Bucky says, lazily quiet, "Do it again; let's find out."

Sam hums, a soft chuckle follows, and then he lets Bucky's hair tumble down just to slide his palm up from Bucky's shoulder to the top of his head, curling his fingers tight.

The sound Bucky makes is unintelligible, something between mmph and uggh.

Sam's hand pauses, "Oh you do, you like this."

He can picture Sam's face. That mouth, lips arched and open, his eyes narrowed with amusement, his skin smooth and glowing and soft in the moonlight.

Bucky pictures the rest of him too, one of those unforgiving arms of endless sinew, his shoulders flexing and hard, the rise and fall of his crafted chest when he breathes.

And suddenly, the thought of Sam yanking his hair has Bucky's entire body on fire. He wants more, wants everything.

He's also 100% sure Sam is the only one who could make it hurt just right, exactly the way his body so inexplicably craves for it. Anyone else would lose an arm trying.

"Come on, doll. That all you got?" He says, voice but a rasp.

Sam shifts behind him. He's still for a moment. Then he wraps his hand around a thick strand of hair and tugs.

"Like this?" Sam asks. Bucky hears the excited prickle of interest in his tone.

Bucky nods; Sam tugs harder.

Bucky whimpers, clutching onto a couch pillow, "Ah fuck!"

With his hand still twisted up in Bucky's hair, Sam pulls him up, "Come here."

Bucky sways a little but complies so fast; he'd be embarrassed if it weren't for the deathly heated look in Sam's eyes.

Sam pats his thigh with his free hand.

Bucky crawls into his lap and presses himself close. "Hey," he smirks.

"So, this is new, huh,?" Sam's eyes flick up to Bucky's tangled hair in his hand, and he pulls again.

"It's—yeah fuck—it's new," his eyes flutter shut, his stomach clenches, and he swallows. He puts his hand in Sam's neck, feeling his pulse's rapid thump.

"I like it," Sam says, breathy and hoarse, sliding his free hand down the back of Bucky's sweats.

The hair thing alone or Sam's hand there would have been enough to make him tip off his own axis; a combination is quite possibly deadly.

But he forces himself to look at Sam, suddenly struck again by how utterly gorgeous he is, how he doesn't even need to try, how he sits here, and has all of Bucky wrapped around his finger. Every last inch, even the metal parts.

"What?" Sam laughs, looking at Bucky, wetting his bottom lip just so.

Bucky shakes his head, his hair pulls tight, "Nothing. You're beautiful."

Sam grins something fierce, something with hooks that anchor right into the meat of Bucky's heart.

Then he yanks Bucky down, deliberately nasty, and licks into his mouth. 

And Bucky all but floats.


	10. Soulmate AU

**Soulmate AU**

Sam is something else. 

Since Bucky started working at the diner, this guy's been on his case- announcing to the entire staff that Bucky is 4.5 minutes late with his eyes all lidded and a lopsided grin. He uses Bucky's favorite register all the time, the one that doesn't glitch. He provides detailed commentary when Bucky tries to multitask with two trays of dishes. 

To top it off, he always looks so goddamn smug about it. 

Bucky tries to ignore him, blatantly not even looking at Sam, which of course, is quite a task when Sam looks the way he does- tight shirts, bubble butt, the cutest smile. It's infuriating, to say the least, since all Sam does is taunt him. 

But Bucky wasn't raised by witches for nothing. He's got a few remedies up his sleeve. 

At first, nothing happens. Bucky thinks he got the spell all wrong, left out an ingredient, or didn't light the right candle. So he does it again.

The spell's harmless, created to annoy and disturb, tamper with inanimate objects. Perhaps the slushie machine spurts upward today instead of down, perhaps Sam's favorite register crashes, or perhaps his apron comes undone at inopportune times. Only time will tell. 

Bucky recites a string of intricate Latin words of the century-old inconvenience spell, sprinkles the herbs, and promptly blows out the candle to seal the deal. 

That should do it.

But it doesn't.

Monday, Bucky wakes up with his sinuses stuffed, eyes red and swollen, and a scratch down the back of his throat. Huh.

At work, Sam, with his most annoyingly pretty grin, announces to everyone that Bucky is all of two minutes late. Again.

"Thanks, Wilson." He says flatly and heads into the kitchen. He spends the day grumbling about 'old, rotten, dumbass, spells' and decides that tonight he'll double up on everything! 

Tuesday morning Bucky thinks he must have hacked out a lung during the night his chest aches so bad. He hauls off to work anyway, has to see if the double spell had any effect.

Sam, unaffected and unbothered, tips his stupid red cap at Bucky when he enters, and grins. Bucky wants to smack one of these pure beef patties right into his cheek.

That night he adds some sage and crows feet and pepper to the spell because fuck all of this.

Wednesday, Bucky can hardly move. His back is pulled into a huge knot between his shoulder blades, head pounding. He calls in sick.

By Friday morning, he's as good as dead. His nose bleeds, and his hands shake, and he's losing consciousness, in and out of fitful sleep.

Bucky thinks he hears the front door creak, but his head's so stuffy he could be imagining it. But then he hears a familiar voice too.

"Bucky?"

His door swings open.

"Nick sent me over to check if you're faking it," Sam says.

Oh fucking great, he thinks—this gorgeous asshole.

"Go tell him I'm dead." He follows that with a gross, wet and rattling cough. "Now get lost, Sam."

Sam leans into his bedroom doorway, pulls a face. "Ew. You look--" the face worsens, and he waves an airy hand in Bucky's direction. "--infectious."

"Oh, shut up. It's just the flu. Wanna come closer and catch some?" He growls from beneath the heap of blankets that is now his home.

"No… It's not", says Sam with measured caution and comes closer until he's standing at the foot of Bucky's bed. "This is a soulmate curse."

Bucky flips open the covers, squints at the light of day as if it has no business being there. "What??"

Sam sits down beside him, "It's ancient law, Buck-O. You should know this." Sam rotates his hand and a dainty, sparkling little tornado forms between his fingertips. He looks at Bucky, who gapes at him, "Or haven't you been practicing for long?"

"What!?" Bucky's mouth opens then shuts as the little sparkly spiral of... magic, he guesses, spins across his belly and chest and throat as Sam moves his hand.

The tornado gets darker and darker as he swirls his hand around, and Bucky's pain and sickness lessen and dissipates until there is none left.

"You can't cast spells on your soulmate, asshole--" Sam's eyes settle right on him, "--because your soulmate can see your magic. And, clearly, I'm way better at this than you are, and I've attached a boomerang spell to your.... well, whatever the hell you call that."

"WHAT!!!??" Bucky, feeling tons better, hurls himself out of bed.

"So, no. The slushie machine didn't spray me full of pink ice, my register's just fine, and--" Sam tugs at his apron, "--as you can see, not coming undone." Sam lies back and folds his arms behind his head, beaming a stupid smile at Bucky.

"Okay, no. See, this is… a fever dream, right??" Bucky peers out the window for a clue, but it's still his house, and that's his car outside. He glares at Sam.

"Nope." he shrugs, "Sorry." He says, but he doesn't look sorry at all.

"So how come I didn't see your magic then??" 

"Like I said… I'm way better at this."

"You could have goddamn told me," Bucky argues, standing a little closer to the bed now.

"Where's the fun in that, huh?"

Bucky sits down, "So, my soulmate is a dick?"

Sam flops onto his back and huffs, "Yeah, well, mines an oblivious, wanna-be witch."

With a flick of his wrist in the air, Bucky drags Sam across the space between them until they're pressed close, the tips of their noses touching. "Wanna say that again?"

Sam gasps, then collects himself, "Hm, no. That was pretty impressive. I'll give you that one."

"I'm not gonna kiss you just yet, still hate you a little", he tells Sam and watches him blink slowly with long curly lashes, and he thinks maybe his stupid face ain't so bad.

Maybe he can even get used to having this face in his bed.

Sam smiles.

Oh, he definitely can.


	11. Fingering SFW version

**Fingering - SFW**

While in quarantine, Sam and Bucky sneak into Steve's old art studio.

There are massive white canvasses and endless jars of paint standing around unused. They decide to put the place to good use, by finger painting.

Bucky tries to make something arty, at least. He paints a sun, and some hills with tall surrounding grass, swiping his fingers across the canvas in long swoops.

Sam, however, is having a field day. He smushes different colored paints together and drags his whole hand over the canvas. It's not horrible, but it's… something.

The way his face lights up and a childish grin seems permanently fixed there- that's more beautiful than anything a true artist could create. Bucky just sort of stops and stares.

"Jealous, Barnes?" Sam says with a yellow streak across his forehead, sunlight beaming onto his back.

Bucky looks at the canvas with Sam's hands all over it, imagining them being all over him instead. "You bet your sweet ass I am." he says.

Sam snorts, shakes his head a little coy. Bucky wonders how it's possible for Sam to still get shy around him, not that he's complaining. It's adorable.

"Want me to paint you too, huh?" Sam says, dipping his fingers in bright pink paint and splotching them onto the few blank spaces left.

Bucky's painting lays forgotten at his feet. "I wouldn't say no." he says low and beckoning.

Sam looks up at him and slinks closer until they're face to face. He leans in for a soft, quick kiss, then brings his stained fingers up to Bucky's face. Bucky feels him paint a heart on one cheek and something a bit more intricate on the other.

"There," Sam whispers, "Perfect." and he kisses Bucky again.

"That's a penis, isn't it?" Bucky smiles, eyes closed, drawing Sam closer, hands around his waist.

With a laugh in his voice and intimately quiet, Sam confirms, "That's a penis."

Bucky places his palm on Sam's cheek, leaving a sky-blue print behind. He tells Sam, "So romantic, Wilson. Truly."

In a flash, Sam pulls them down to the ground and rolls himself on top of Bucky. His colorful fingers are all over now, his mouth soft against Bucky's jaw.

They pull their t-shirts off and toss them in a heap in the corner, and just to be a little shit, Bucky dips his fingers in a can of luminous violet and drags them down Sam's back.

Sam retaliates by smearing his hand in a spill of orange and planting his palm on Bucky's chest.

Not long after, still kissing feverishly and laughing themselves into a boneless mess, Sam suddenly stops, wide-eyed.

"You think this shit's got lead in it??"

Bucky stills too, breathless, "Oh, fuck…"

A little light comes to life on the ceiling and FRIDAY says, "Captain Rogers used only lead-free paint, Captain Wilson. You are safe. I'll send the cleaning crew in once you're done."

They both burst with giggles. Sam nips at Bucky's ear.

"Thanks, honey," Bucky says and slides his teal tinted fingers into Sam's neck.

They look like a rainbow, and maybe that's just perfect. 


End file.
